


Among The Trees, Where My Heart Lives

by wintermoons



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dalish Culture, Dalish Elves, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship, M/M, Romance, Some Sindarin Elvish, mention of a panic attack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-02 02:00:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5229584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintermoons/pseuds/wintermoons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The memories Bellanaris had of her own childhood were always seen through a haze of gold and light."</p><p>A third letter arrives at Skyhold mere months after the second. Once again Keeper Deshanna reaches out, this time to an Inquisitor Lavellan only just setting in, with a desperate plea for aid. The decision to help is easy; they are her clan, her family. But as violence and tragedy beset Clan Lavellan, and with the eyes of all of Thedas on her, Bellanaris will find the line she is forced to walk between 'Dalish Hunter' and 'Herald of Andraste' is sharper than ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 The memories Bellanaris had of her own childhood were always seen through a haze of gold and light. The light filtering through the leaves, running through long grasses and fields of wildflowers, the lilting and rhythmic tones of spoken elvish. The smell of the halla and sunlight on her mother's skin when she was pulled by arms into a chest both covered in cured leather. Laughter flowing free as river water from her throat as she and the pack of other Dalish children, clean faced and feet bare, raced through the trees. The smell of burning oak wood and cooking meat weaving seamlessly through the sounds of the Hahren’s lyre.

She hadn’t been lying when she’d told Josephine, all those months ago in that tiny corner office in the Haven Chantry, that it was idyllic.

“Obviously these aren’t just normal bandits,” Leliana's voice from across the War Table, drawing Bella from her thoughts and her study of the most recent note, “Cullen’s troops should have been more than enough to dissuade them, and yet they show unusual persistence.”

The third letter came by raven just two weeks after the small company of Cullen’s soldiers had been dispatched. Bella still had the first two sitting on her desk, both written in Keeper Deshanna’s elegant hand. The first had come rather early during their days in Haven, expressing worry that she was being held against her will. The second was a bit more serious, speaking of bandits hounding the clan relentlessly while the remains of the Inquisition had made the trek to Skyhold. But this most recent note was even more distressing.

“They were never just normal bandits; the Keeper wouldn’t have asked for our help in the first place if they were.” Bella shook her head as she placed the parchment down on the map, over the southern most tip of the Frostbacks.

Her advisor’s voices faded into the background as they began to discuss possible strategies between themselves; sending Leliana's agents to find where the bandit’s resources originated, Josephine tapping one of her contacts in a larger city or village to give the clan refuge. All Bellanaris could focus on was that her clan was running; according to the third letter Clan Lavellan had been forced to turn from their route back to the Planasene Forest and was now making a break for Skyhold. Attacks from bandits were normal around large cities or on the main roads, but never in the young Lavellan’s 26 years with her clan had they ever failed to hold their ground. The hunters were always strong enough, or the First stepped in if things became too difficult. Only once in the history of the clan had the Keeper been forced to act, wielding her magic in defense of her family. But not once had the Clan run.

“Bellanaris?”

Cullen’s voice sharply grabbing her attention--he must have been trying to gain it for some time if he had resorted to using her given name in the War Room. But could anyone blame her for being distracted?

“I’m going out there,”  her voice brooked no argument, stopping the one she could already see rising in their ambassador, “As I should have from the beginning. The most recent letter puts them just outside the Exalted Plains--they turned towards Skyhold as a precaution just before we sent the soldiers. Cullen, try to get in contact with the men in the forward camps, find out if anyone’s seen these bandits. Josephine and Leliana will focus on finding out the Clan’s exact location; they may have changed course by now. I leave at first light tomorrow.”

The snow haired elf didn’t bother to wait for the customary ‘yes, Inquisitor’s. Instead she turned on her heel and swiftly exited the War Room, leaving her advisors to work out the logistics of her orders on their own. A knot of dread sat heavy in her stomach; Dalish archers were arguably some of the best in all of Thedas. What sort of men were hunting them that a few well aimed arrows couldn’t cure? And what of her mother? Clan Lavellan being large enough to warrant a war leader in the first place gave far too much credit to these people then Bellanaris was comfortable with. She had seen her mother take on and take down countless threats; leading her hunters against packs of wolves, bands of highwaymen and even a group of rogue Templars. Her mother defended her clan as if she had been born to the task, as if the act was what the Creators had shaped her into being to do.

As she reached the door to Josephine’s office and exited out the other side Bella’s mind ran wild, conjuring up images of bandits paid in gold and red lyrium by Corypheus to hunt down her family. She had to intercept the Clan before the bandits did. Creators help them if she failed...

 

Both the night sky and Cullen found the Inquisitor in her quarters, furiously packing for the trip despite the hour. When he reached the top of the stairs she stood near the bed, dagger half unsheathed in her hand as she examined its edge. It’s twin lay on the bed along with her bow, several changes of civilian clothes, and her newest set of armor from the Undercroft. As he reached the landing green eyes settled on him before she sheathed the dagger with an overly decisive snap and turned back to her things on the bed. Cullen crossed the short distance from the stairs to the bed, Bella ignoring him entirely in favor of her preparations.

“Relax, love; I’ve not come to try and dissuade you.” Immediately he saw her posture soften, having tensed to fight a battle that wasn’t coming, “Leading from the front in this case is the best option. Who are you bringing with you?”

“Dorian, Varric and the Bull.” Her tone was clipped as she secured her daggers into their belt with rough movements, too consumed with worry to have any sort of meaningful conversation on strategy. He could see the tension held fast in her shoulders and neck, no doubt a headache was forming at the base of her skull. At this point she would worry herself into exhaustion before they even got down the mountain.

She only stilled with an air of resignation when the pressure of Cullens’ hand was laid against her back, closed her eyes against it as the touch both unsettled and grounded her. Without his thick leather gloves the warmth of his hand was more apparent: he’d put away his usual armor before coming down, trading the pauldrons and steel for comfortable linen and soft leather. When she opened her eyes it was to look down at the bedspread, but still she could sense Cullen standing beside her on the outer edges of her vision.

“Twenty six years, up and down the Free Marches, Blight or no Blight, and never once have we run.” Even to her own ears she sounded worn, and it had only been about seven hours since the plans had been made.

She expected Cullen to pull her towards him and into an embrace, but instead he gestured for her to sit on the bed. The mattress dipped with his weight as he sat down behind her, and she felt gentle but sword worn fingers bring her braid around from over her shoulder to down her back. As he spoke he untied the leather cord at the bottom and slowly began to undo the neat plait she’d done that morning, the rough calluses on his hands catching just slightly against her hair.

“You’re focusing so much on possibility when you’ve said it already: twenty six years and you’ve never run. That’s an impressive number by any standards. The soldiers are still with the clan and soon enough you, Bull, Varric, and Dorian will join them. Then it won’t matter what those so-called bandits throw at you.” Bellanaris sighed heavily; Cullen had a way of making it all sound so simple when, in her mind, there were a thousand opportunities for things to go horribly wrong. The distance between her and the clan seemed as vast as the sea; so many miles only meant so much more could happen.

“But they must know who the Clan is if they’re being so persistent. Someone must have discovered something and traced them back to me--” Her words got stuck in her throat as she felt Cullen press his chest to her back, arms coming to encircle her shoulders as her own long white hair fell in loose waves around her.

“Ssh, none of that now,” he said quietly, chin resting on the top of her head, “Clan Lavellan is strong and so are you. If someone did send the bandits we will deal with that in it’s own time, but you must know that none of this is at all because of you.”

There was nothing Bella could say against that. He was right, of course, but the pit in her stomach didn’t know it even as the lump in her throat did. At the very least her headache was fading now that the pressure from her braid was gone; maybe she would be able to get some sleep tonight after all. She would certainly need it, the journey from Skyhold to the Plains would be a long one, nearly a week if they wanted to avoid running the horses into the ground--

“ _Ma’arlath, ma vhenan._ ”

Her heart skipped a beat she would never admit to at those words, all thoughts of the next day suddenly gone. Surprise stopped her thinking of anything she might have said either, and she knew Cullen could feel it manifest as tension in her back. Apparently it was enough for his former confidence to start breaking down:

“It--it wasn’t wrong, was it? I...had Solas teach me. By the time I left his quarters it was ‘passable’, though I suspect he  may have simply gotten fed up with me--”

Bella could practically feel him pressing down the urge to rub the back of his neck as she turned to face him. Sure enough his eyes were cast sideways and down, and there was that bashful look again. For the sole Commander of an entire army Cullen seemed to have become the best of friends with that expression around her, even from the start. Her hand against his cheek stopped his ramblings and she caught his gaze in her own.

“It was perfect, now stop ruining it,” She put as much confidence into that first phrase as she could before teasing. Sitting up enough to be level with him she leaned in for a kiss, speaking against his lips “And I love you too.”

With an about-face even the strictest of Commanders would be proud of that easy confidence was back, in the hand resting firmly against her waist as he kissed her again. He was getting better at it, at not immediately second guessing his attempts at romance or flattery around her. Bella had no problem admitting she preferred the confident Cullen over the bashful one who stumbled over his words, but any Cullen was better than none at all.

He was the one to pull back first, only just far enough to look her in the eye. His expression was calm, certain--a comforting mix of the brave Inquisition Commander and the farmer’s son she had come to know so well. Tucking a strand of her hair behind one long pointed ear he just regarded her for a moment, long enough that she almost asked what he was looking for.

“All you have to do is get them to Skyhold, we’ll take care of the rest.”

Bella rested her forehead against his, vallaslin pressing against his unmarked skin, closing her eyes with a sigh. As he leaned back to rest against the headboard and resume his attentions to her hair she followed, shifting down so her cheek rested against his chest this time. She was pensive, attempting to force his words of reassurance to sink in by sheer force of will.

“...Your pronunciation could use polishing,” It was at best a half hearted stab at levity, but Creator’s bless this man as Bella felt more than hearing his quiet laugh against her cheek.

“Yes, well, in a week I’ll have an entire clan of Dalish elves around to critique it, won’t I?”

If only she could be so confident of it as he was.

 

The morning dawned cold and clear, and the sky was just starting to lighten by the time the Inquisitor was finishing saddling up her hart. Master Dennett called her the Pride of Arlathan, but Bella much preferred to call her Atisha. In any case, the beast was as close to her halla as she was going to get. A pat on the nose calmed the animal as she shifted in her tack, smart enough to know the soft leather saddle and bridle meant exercise.

Bella turned just in time to see the rest of her small company approach from the main entrance, and the sight of Dorian pulled a smile to her face. It was obvious that the early hour did not suite him--he was stifling a yawn as he turned to address Bull with tired eyes;

“Bull, I’ll buy you an entire cask of Antivan Brandy if you’ll carry me to the Exalted Plains.”

“What, is it nap time already?” Bull quirked a brow; Dorian couldn’t have woken up more than an hour ago and spent half of it falling asleep again. He should know; he was the one who dragged him out of bed.

“You could use some more of that beauty rest, Sparkler. I think I see a few gray hairs around the temple.” Varric goaded, chuckling when Dorian just scoffed at him but still brushed a discretely worried hand against the short clipped hair at his brow, “Ready to go, Luna?”

“As I’ll ever be,” leading Atisha by the bridle further out into the stable yard, then under the battlements and into the main courtyard Bella left her companions to collect their mounts.

Fetching her bow down from it’s place tied to the saddle Bella gently pulled back the string, testing its weight. She’d restrung it her bow before leaving her quarters, and the point had been made to stop by Adan’s to deliberate over. But really she was just stalling; Cullen had still been asleep when she’d first woken up, but that had been at least two hours ago. She had resisted the urge to wake him before she left the room, knowing all too well how precious a full night’s sleep was. Between the late nights spent on his duties to the Inquisition and those forfeited to lingering nightmares the bags beneath Cullen’s eyes never really faded.

And yet, faithful as ever, Cullen exited the main doors of the keep just as Bella had hoisted herself up into the saddle.

Atisha cocked her ears back when caught the sound of Cullen’s boots against the grass as he approached, the Commander laying a gentle hand against the harts back as he came to a stop beside her.

“I was wondering if you’d make it,” Bella admitted, smiling as she ran her fingers through the longer front portion his hair--it looked just the slightest bit unkempt. He had rushed in getting ready, not even bothering to fetch his armor before coming out and instead favored the clothes he’s come to her quarters wearing.

“It would take quite a bit more than messy hair to stop me from seeing you off,” he caught her hand and kissed the back of it, then her lips as she leaned down in the saddle to reach. And, when he caught sight of the familiar coin hung from a leather cord around her neck he kissed that too before tucking it back into the emerald green scarf that made up the neck of her armor. With his permission the gift had been made into a necklace; she was too afraid of losing it to take it with her otherwise.

“Normally we’d have to pretend we couldn’t see them for him to do that.” Dorian’s voice from behind her, in a pitiful attempt at a stage-whisper.

“I just hope for the Boss’ sake he’s less bashful in the sack. Trust me; woman like her needs a man who knows his way around,” Bull’s voice and Varric’s laughter were heard loud and clear. Bull just smirked and shrugged when Bella bared her teeth at him before she turned back around to see Cullen laughing despite the redness in his cheeks.

“You should be on your way, before I have to hear more of what the Bull finds obvious.” Cullen purposefully raised his voice for the Qunari to hear, resting his hand on Bella’s knee as he quieted his voice again, “Ride safely, love.”

“Always, _ma vhenan_.” And with that a click of her tongue Atisha started off towards the main gates, Bellanaris taking a deep breath of cold mountain air as she passed through them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those that are interested, images of Bellanaris will be here shortly.


	2. Chapter 2

The quartet following the Imperial Highway for most of the first day, but on the second, just outside of Lydes, they veered south and made straight for the Emerald Graves. Bella was sure the thick trees would be more attractive to a clan on the run--the aravels would be visible for miles around on the Plains, and the Keepers magic would allow for faster travel in the forest. In the face of such logic taking the time to wander around the Plains would be foolish, dangerous even. So they pushed the horses hard, continuing on through the dark until even Bellanaris’ eyes could no longer make out the path. Up until that point she’d been stoic, maybe even surly, quietly leading the group without taking part in the usual conversation. By the time the party made camp and Varric served the night's’ stew around the fire, her traveling companions were determined to change that.

“You guys really should think about painting those sails a different color, Boss. Bright red doesn’t exactly spell out ‘discrete’, you know.” The Qunari swiped a hand across his mouth in the absence of a napkin, his comment seemingly in lieu of nothing. The Boss glanced at him, eyes catching and reflecting back the fire's light light in the way all elven eyes did. It always gave him the creeps.

“According to the Keeper ‘a surprised shem is a frightened shem, and a frightened shem is dangerous’,” The admission was made with a shrug, she felt no shame in her people wanting to scare humans off, “The farther they run on seeing our sails, the better.”

“Is that just a thing with all of you Dalish? ‘Shem’?” Dorian asked from his position next to Bull, having finished up his meal and moved on to one of several books he usually brought along in his pack.

“Everyone was too busy kissing the ground she walked on to say anything, but by the time you showed up our dear Inquisitor was downright neighborly.” Varric said from across the fire, “The first few weeks we weren’t even sure she knew any of the humans names.”

“Even your dearest Commander Cullen?” Dorian sounded honestly shocked, not quite able to picture Bella being so cold to a man she had been kissing goodbye just two days ago. Her frown seemed to be answer enough, as he immediately turned to Varric, “Oh that is so adorable I could almost cry! Varric, write that down; you have to put that in one of your books.”

“Way ahead of you, Pavus.” Varric’s smirk was much too conniving for Bella to be at all comfortable with. But Bull, seeing an argument brewing in the narrowing of the Inquisitor’s eyes, swiftly interjected.

“So, what’s this Keeper of yours keep exactly?” Of course there were no Dalish as far north as Par Vollen, though the Bull suspected that even off the island few knew the answer.

“Yes, do tell.” Dorian’s interest piqued at the chance to learn something new, especially if it concerned the Inquisitor. He’d tried to ask just those sorts of questions during the early days in Haven; given his people’s history with elves Dorian assumed making friendly conversation was the best way to convince the Inquisitor he wasn’t about to start ordering her around with his nose in the air. But he had been tactfully and yet utterly dismissed, given only terse half answers at best. He didn’t blame her, despite his best efforts he was still from Tevinter, and so with her rebuke he had been forced to turn to books to get answers secondhand. Perhaps now that they were on much better terms he would finally get them straight from the source.

“The Keeper is …they’re the mage who leads us, our protector from Fen’Harel, the passer down of our history, the guardian of written elvish.” Bella was attempting to be brief and end it at that, but of course one questions lead into another and on to the next. Was this what it had been like for Dorian or Bull to explain their people to her? It was exhausting. By the time the question finally stopped Bull had finished off the rest of the stew and Varric had pulled out a pipe from Creators knew where.

“That’s all well and good, of course,” Dorian had since taken to using the Bull’s side as a rest for his back, “But it's all a bit….general. What I’m most interested in is what your clan is like.”

From what Dorian could see the question threw the Inquisitor off; she traded her look of reluctantly humoring them all for one of genuine surprise. Had no one really asked that before? Apparently not, because Bella seemed to have to think of a way to begin. He supposed, if people bothered to ask at all, the answers they would be given were in those broad strokes and left at that. Dorian might not have even asked if he did not know her as a person, harsh as that might sound. But now that he did the mage was curious to know just what sort of people had shaped the remarkable woman that sat before him. In any case, once the confusion faded it seemed to be a question she was much more comfortable with.

“Until several months ago I had never been apart from them for more than a few days. All thirty five of us are related somehow, either through blood or bonding, and we’ve been roaming the Free Marches together long before I was born. The Planasene Forest, mostly. My mother Neria is our warleader; she trains the prospective hunters and leads the ones who make it through the training. She trained me herself in the Vir Tanadhal. When I left my friend Ishall was training under our craftswoman Varathani. She would always scold me for being careless whenever I ripped my clothes scouting or on a hunt, so I would go to Ishall instead to have it mended. His stitches were crooked, but they always held and I escaped a lecture.”

No one made it evident, but not Dorian, Bull or Varric had ever heard her speak with such fondness about anyone but Cullen or at such length about anything. Most information Bellanaris shared about her clan wasn’t voluntary; clipped responses to pointed questions were the most any of them had gotten out of her before they stopped trying. Never before had she freely given up anything, usually regarding questions about her clan with suspicion. But it was also the most relaxed any of them had seen her all day.

“Is that a note of fondness I hear? Was a young Bella in love with this Ishall?” Varric asked with a quirk of the brow, quick seizing the opportunity to keep this light mood going.

An indelicate snort was his only response, one Josephine surely would have scolded her for. But despite that Bella laughed as she spoke, “No, Ishall had his heart set on my cousin Mirai. Who never seemed very convinced, mind you. He’s sweet, but Dalish girls dream of hunters, not apprentice craftsmen. Mirai has been nipping at my mother’s heels for months to set her up with one of her hunters.”

“Shit, no wonder you ended up leading the Inquisition--with a mother like that it’s in your blood.” Bull said with a fair level of confidence, even if Bella was sure leading a Clan in a skirmish was nothing like leading an Inquisition.

“You make it all sound so perfect,” Dorian knew he sounded fairly fascinated, but he simply couldn’t help it--the life the Inquisitor was describing was so foreign to him, “If I had to spend my whole life with only my family for company I’d sooner go mad then last a day. But I can only imagine what an utter hellhole Haven must have seemed.”

Bellanaris had to smile at that; between the roof constantly over her head and the lack of traveling she’d barely slept her first week in the village, “For an elf who didn’t know much else, it was. I had never seen so many humans in one place before the Conclave, so many strangers. But now...it will be strange to see everyone again.”

“Well, you’re not exactly the same elf. Less prickly, that’s for damn sure.” Varric said with a chuckle, blowing a thick billow of smoke through his nose.

Varric had obviously meant it to be a casual comment, but she wasn’t the same elf, was she? Bella had left her clan as Bellanaris, daughter of Neria and future warleader to Clan Lavellan. She was returning as the Inquisitor, a figurehead of a powerful human organization aiming to save the world...but just what sort of elf did that make her? The thought hung like a bright lantern in the back of her mind, demanding to be noticed, even as Bella tucked into her bedroll for the night.

 

The reply had come three days ago, the raven finally catching up with their aravels a day's journey between them and the western edge of the Dales. Nathari was the first one to spot it, of course--her eyes might not be what they once were but years of tending to the Halla made her quick to pick out the flash of white on it’s breast. Mirai had been the only to recognize her cousin’s handwriting. Her grasp of the written Trader's Tongue was much improved from the last letter Mirai had seen, but the message was far more important:

Bellanaris was coming.

The sigh of relief that wound it’s way through the camp was palpable, the lines of worry on the Keeper’s face just a little less deep. That night the Keeper had even given the order to make camp and light the fire for supper. Trout stew seemed decadent after so many days living on cured rabbit and water.

It wasn’t as if the Inquisition soldiers hadn’t been welcome. The band of fifteen had done their job well, riding alongside the caravan during the long days and patrolling the camp borders through the short nights. But not one single elf rode among them; flat-eared or otherwise. The bandits seemed put-off at least; according to Cyrnia’s eavesdropping the shem soldiers had only caught wind of them a handful of times since their arrival. Cyrnia could always be trusted to deliver just the sorts of things Keeper Deshanna would much rather have them ignorant of.

“They’re a bit grim, aren’t they? Even for shems.” Ishall had observed the morning after the soldiers arrival, peeking out at one through the gap in the aravel’s sails.

Mirai had had to agree: the shem that had been closest to their aravel was stony faced and tight lipped as he rode, gloved hand forever resting on the pommel of his sword. But apparently they weren’t nearly so dumb; the shem had glanced over to them as the Elvish reached his ears. No one was foolish enough to speak much Common around them, not that much Common was spoken anyway. Saeris and Seldras had made a game out of it in recent weeks; the twin brothers taking turns coming up with more and more vile things to say to the soldiers, to see who could get away with more without the soldiers catching on. Both were practically red in the ears with eagerness to share the best one with Bella when she returned. All of them were, really; all five nearly beside themselves in the smallest corners of their hearts to share anything with her again.

If only it could happen under better circumstances.

The inside of an aravel was where the pair found themselves now, only this time with the blur of trees as scenery. Bellanaris’ letter had been clear; she and her small group would meet them in the forest outside of Verchiel, far enough from the shem city to not be noticed and yet close enough to be easily found. And they would all travel back to Skyhold together. The sea of green that was the Dales had lay between them.

“Maybe Neria will finally be able to relax.” Ishall’s gaze was set on the bit of sewing in his hands--according to his Hahren long hours in the aravel were wasted if not spent practicing his stitches. What he worked on Mirai couldn’t see, but he spoke loud enough to be heard over the creaking of the sails, “Creators know she could use the rest.”

Mirai couldn’t find it in herself to give much of a reply, fussing with a bit of her hair to try and soothe her nerves. It wasn’t working. For a moment the silence hung as thick as summer heat between them.

“What’s wrong?” Leave it to Ishall to call out her worrying, the smooth sloping lines of ink on his forehead contorting as his brow furrowed. June’s markings on his face somehow only ever made his expressions more obvious, “You should be happy; your _asa’var’lin_ is coming home. “

His combination of high and low elvish was seamless. What would the shem soldiers call Bella? ‘Cousin’? Somehow the word felt so much more hollow then theirs.

“Bells is coming home, Mir.” He’d taken her lack of a response for a dismissal, trying again in earnest to gain a response.

Both were nicknames the two women only ever allowed him to use. Somehow Ishall never made them sound mocking as the other boys might have, only fond. It was only with the absence of her cousin, without that normal, steadying presence to round out their little group, that Mirai even noticed these things.

“I’ll be happy when she’s actually here,” The confession was spoken more to the darkness beyond the sails and the trees as they rushed by then to Ishall.

Mirai felt more than heard Ishall prepare to speak, drawing in the breath to say whatever was on his mind. But she never found out what that was.

The aravel was stopping.

Suddenly the constant rush of wind around them died, the sails of the aravel growing slack without air to fill them. Without that dull roar Mirai easily heard the halla shift in their tack, snorting and stamping at the ground. They were nervous. Yet neither young elf had noticed what had prompted the caravan’s sudden halt.

“...Have we stopped for the night?.” Ishall’s voice was quiet from his corner of the aravel, the silence around them had sharply turned from comfortable to stifling. If Mirai looked out to find not a single soul around them, she wouldn’t have been surprised. But if they really were breaking camp there should be a bustling of activity; of unloading aravels and unhitching halla. The night outside was silent as the graves.

Slowly, with the caution of a rabbit trying to escape the notice of a bear, Mirai rose to her feet, eyes flashing in the dim light. Then, thinking better of going alone, she thrust her hand out behind her for Ishall. Feeling his long, thin fingers firmly entwine with hers Mirai let out a breath and took a more confident step towards the front of the landship.

The world around her erupted into chaos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this chapter and chapter 3 were combined, but I decided it was too much going on for only the second chapter so you'll all just have to wait.
> 
> The one bit of 'non-canon' Elvish in this chapter, as well as future chapters, is courtesy of FenxShiral's [Project Elvhen](http://archiveofourown.org/series/229061).
> 
> And for the more visual folks [here](http://i.imgur.com/oruEKxr.png) [are](http://i.imgur.com/ztdGycj.png) [some](http://i.imgur.com/DzF48Xc.png) pictures of Bellanaris as well as attempts at [Neria](http://oi63.tinypic.com/21o6gea.jpg), [Mirai](http://oi65.tinypic.com/11r3jfb.jpg), and [Ishall](http://oi66.tinypic.com/2rzw6du.jpg) with the Inquisition CC. With Mirai and Neria I didn't quite get the family resemblance or the hairstyles was I hoping for, and they're all a bit more 'stylized' looking then Bella, but I'm pretty happy regardless.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for blood, descriptions of violence, and mention of a panic attack.

The first thing Bella noticed was the smell of magefire--the choking smoke with the bright ozone burn of lyrium mixed in. Her hart snorted the smell out of it’s nose even as Bella’s breath caught fast in her throat. The Bull might have asked after the tensing of her shoulders as her heart tried to make a break both for her stomach and her throat all at once. He might have, but the Inquisitor paid him no mind as she suddenly spurred her mount forward, the beast swift through the close-packed trees. As she rounded a particularly large oak tree there it was, suddenly, the source of the smell: an aravel, one of the smaller ones, burning itself to nothing more than kindling. With a panicked gaze Bella surveyed the scene, trying to keep Atisha under control as she shied away from the flames. But there were no bodies, no signs of burnt bows or arrows.

 

A distraction, then.

 

Just a distraction...

 

She barely heard Dorian’s vehement swear as he was the second to arrive before Bella was off again, Atisha bellowing as she was quickly yanked around and kicked into a gallop. With an impending sense of dread Dorian watched for a few moments as the fire slowly consumed the structure, bright red sails turning to thick black ash. Bull and Varric caught up moments later, Bulls’ huge warhorse slow and clumsy over the rolling terrain. The Inquisitor was just a flash of white hair and silver hart hide up ahead, and for just one moment Dorian lost his nerve to follow her. But he could not, would not, leave his only friend to face it alone.

 

"This doesn't look good..." Varric's words were murmured under his breath, yet they still made Dorian's stomach drop with a sickening quickness as he steered his mount to follow after the Inquisitor.

 

When she finally arrived the small clearing held none of the frantic chaos of the burning aravel, of the writhing flames and pouring smoke. That thick, choking smell was distant now. If she were able to look the other way Bella might have convinced herself it was just a human's campfire. But she couldn’t. A new smell had overtaken all the others, like the Undercroft when Master Harritt forged her new daggers; the wetness of the waterfall mixing with the sharp tang of hot metal. It gathered in the back of her throat and lodged there, even as Bella found herself with both feet on the ground and no clear memory of dismounting. It was in that same foggy daze that she walked through the space between the trees and bodies, the blood of her clansmen and the Inquisition soldiers soaking into her boots.

 

There were many times Bull was thankful for his Ben-Hassrath training, even in his life outside of the Qun; when someone tried to cheat him in a round of cards, or held a dagger or vial of poison in their hand they didn’t want him to know about. Bull usually had no trouble spotting when Varric's stories got just a little too fanciful to be real, or figuring out what Vivienne actually meant by most of what came out of her mouth. Regardless, his skills at reading people or the facts of a situation were often useful, especially as the front-line bodyguard to one of the most powerful figures in Thedas. He'd caught more assassins then he cared to count, and not a one had even gotten close to laying a hand on the Boss thanks to him. Hell, half of them he was pretty sure she didn't even know about. But as he rode into the clearing with a thunder of heavy hooves and snapping of brush under them, the Bull was anything but thankful.

 

Fifty bodies even lay before them, just over thirty elves and fifteen Inquisition soldiers. All dead, all with throats slit, bodies covering the ground like some kind of fucked up carpet. But that had been after the fact, a precaution, not what killed them. Slashes from swords, burns from a mage's fire or electricity, skulls caved in by mace or maul; those were the killing blows. But through it all there was something clean, practiced, no hint of desperation and not a single sloppy hand. And no arrow wounds either, no smaller cuts from daggers. You didn’t try to out-rouge a culture whose fighters were tempered on the string of a bow or the edge of a dagger. No, you overwhelmed them, both with numbers and with strength; applied pressure until their lithe bodies snapped under it.

 

But that all was easily forgotten, thoughts passing from his head mere seconds after they'd entered. The one thing Bull really paid much attention to, would remember in the aftermath of it all, was that the Boss was silent. She didn’t scream her rage to the sky at the injustice, or fall wailing to the ground. The only sounds were coming from them--his own swearing in Qunlat from between his teeth, Dorian’s strangled gasp, the breath leaving Varric’s chest in one great rush, their mounts snorting and fussing as their every instinct told them to run from the smell of death--

 

“Dorian!”

 

The Altus had heard his name called at volume many times before in his life; his mother in a scolding tone being the source of most of them. But in this instance, tearing itself from his friend’s throat with a kind of violent desperation he had never heard… It made his blood run cold. Everything within him rebelled from that sound; it was one that would later haunt his dreams, one he would never want to be forced to hear ever again and yet would not leave him. Nevertheless, he headed her call as quickly as he could.

 

Even still it took him a moment to find her, having been distracted with taking in the horrors around them. But once he did Dorian was off his horse in a flash and making for where Bellanaris knelt by one of the bodies, dropping his staff along the way. An older elven woman with greying hair and intricate robes lay on the ground, blood soaking Bella’s hands as the poorly placed slash across her throat gushed red. But the blood was still flowing, which meant--

 

His hands flared with magic all the way up to his biceps as he roughly pushed Bella’s hands away in order to better reach the wound. The natural opposite of his necromancy though it was, Dorian was not completely bereft of healing spells. But unlike Solas or the Skyhold healers his were sloppy, wild things; a fierce pouring of magic into a wound that would heal just this side of wrong and scar terribly--something that was never meant for this. Still, the fragile hopeful look on his friends’ face, her green eyes locked on the face of her Keeper; searching for even the smallest trace of life...

 

The magic left him in a dizzying rush as Keeper Deshanna’s failing heart drank it in greedy droves, desperate to keep itself beating. But still he tried to force it through, flesh beneath his hands already beginning to cool even as he pressed down harder on the wound. Even when the draw on the other end slackened and then faded altogether, even as his mana reserves ran well past the point of dry, even as Dorian’s vision blurred and his own heart stuttered as if in sympathy to the elven mage’s--

 

“Kadan.”

 

Bull’s hand was heavy on his forearm, unwavering despite the blue glow, the Qunari somehow having appeared silently behind him. How could such a mountain of a man move so quietly? Dorian blinked sluggishly as his hands were gently pried from the fallen elf’s neck by larger grey-skinned ones. The sweat on his brow felt like ice water as the flares of magic guttered and went out. On the other side of the thing that had suddenly become a corpse Varric was placing a hand on Bella’s shoulder, though the elf looked as if she might collapse under it’s weight at any moment. Her eyes were only for her Keeper’s face, even now, expression lax with a kind of numb disbelief.

 

Any words, any desperate selfish apologies Dorian might had offered up got caught, wedged tight and painful his throat by the weight of his own crushing failure. That _look_. He couldn't stand the thought he'd put it there, not for one second. Couldn't stand the thought that he, the great and accomplished son of House Pavus with had the most wonderful natural talent for magic, had put it there. She was his only friend, his best friend, and Dorian was the reason for that look on her face...Suddenly Bull's arms were around him, gathering him easily into his arms as if the Altus weighed next to nothing. Silently Bull carried him back to their horses at the edge of the field, not doubt able to see just what sorts of thoughts were swirling around in his head. The press of hard tree bark against his back was hardly felt as Bull rummaged around in one of the saddle bags. Why couldn’t he catch his breath?

 

“Easy, now.” Bull murmured as he stuffed the uncorked lyrium potion into Dorian’s unsteady hands, his single eye keen as he watched as the lip of the vial met Dorian’s lips. One hand ran through the mage’s dark hair as the other took the now empty vial back, "Just take a deep breath for me, Kadan. There you go..."

 

Normally Dorian would have swatted Bulls’ hand away, putting on that whiny high-maintenance act just for the sake of seeing Bull smirk. But he was silent, skin slightly ashen even as he did what Bull asked. It wasn’t a good sign but Bull couldn’t do anything about it now, just clamp down hard on his own heart as it reached out to Dorian and muscle through. Once more Bull would have to be the collected one, Varric apparently unequipped in the face of mass slaughter to dig them out of this mess. The dwarf’s frown was a deep as a mercenary’s pockets. From what Bull had heard the mess that night in Kirkwall, when the Chantry had blown up and both the Grand Enchanter and Knight Commander had gone completely crazy...this was a hell of a lot more messy them demons, red lyrium, and giant moving statues. Bull didn’t blame Varric, not one bit. So that meant sucking it the hell up and doing what had to get done on his own. So he stood with a groan as his bad ankle bitched at him and waded back into the clearing for the Inquisitor.

 

An incident a couple years ago sprang to the Qunari’s mind as he picked his way through the bodies; what was supposed to be an easy job killing some rebels for some stuck up noble had gotten out of hand. Wrong place at the wrong time and one of his guys had caught an arrow to the throat before Bull could put himself in front of it. Dalish was new to the Chargers back then, finding her place within their tight knit little group with an ease that had initially impressed him. But after the fighting had died down he’d found Dalish kneeling in the dirt, hands pressed tight against her mouth to keep back the sobs. But what did he expect? Wasn’t a company like the Chargers close enough to a Dalish clan? From what Bull knew elves like Dalish and the Boss grew up seeing the same twenty or thirty faces, and sometimes only those faces, for their entire lives. Loss hit them hard and sank in deep.

 

So if the death of one friend had made Dalish crumble like that, then just what the fuck was losing her entire family going to do to the Boss?

 

She hadn’t moved from the spot Bull had last seen her in, still sitting by her Keeper. Not that Bella didn’t want to; her brain screamed for her legs to run, to let her escape from the nightmare that sat unfolded around her. But a Despair demon might as well have encased her legs in ice for all the good that did, her entire body too numb to even allow her to crawl away from the corpses and stench of death. But oh, how she wanted to.

 

The only part of her that could feel were her hands, the blood still vaguely warm against her skin and slick in a way that made her stomach turn.

 

It was the Keepers blood….

The Clan was dead.

The children, Hahren Lanaya, the First, Mirai--

Mirai’s was here among them, somewhere. The hair Bella used to braid flowers into every spring was soaked with blood, the hands that would hold hers as they ran through the trees as children were cold--

 

Bulls’ hands suddenly covering her own much smaller ones, blocking them from view. Squeezing them hard enough that the wetness of blood on her hands was gone, until they were just as numb as the rest of her. Only then did Bella realize she was shaking; hard enough that her muscles were starting to ache. When did that start?

 

The way the Boss looked up at Bull, from his hands that covered her own to his face, punched a hole straight through his calm facade. Eyes wide and helpless, so far removed from the powerful Inquisitor she was on the battlefield with her piercing arrows and cutting daggers. It was the look of someone who’d just had their entire world ripped out from under them, the edges left to bleed. But, ever observant, something behind the Inquisitor caught the Bull’s eye for just a moment as he quickly gathered himself. Long enough to process the sight of one of the aravels, a larger one, tipped over with it’s doors slightly ajar. But more specifically the small hand that hung out of the gap, limp and pale, the body it was attached to enfolded in the darkness…

 

He had to keep the Boss’ attention on him.

 

“Come on, Boss. Let’s get out of here, let’s get you back to Skyhold.” Bella had never heard the Bull speak so calmly, never heard his voice so measured. But...go back to Skyhold? What about her clan? They couldn’t just leave them--

 

“Nobody said anything about leaving them. Pretty sure there’s one of our outposts somewhere out here; Varric can go get the soldiers. They can come and...take care of things.” Had she actually said that out loud? It didn’t much matter anymore as the Bull was gently coaxing her to her feet.

 

Everything after that was a bit of blur. Bull deposited her closer to the remaining horses. By then Dorian had managed to pull himself together enough to sit up --they’d be lost if both he and Bellanaris were practically comatose. Still, he wasn’t far off from it; all the mage could bring himself to do was keep out of the way. He watched as Varric left his side and made for his horse, the dwarf having been making himself useful by doing a bang up job Dorian from what probably would have blossomed into an oh-so helpful panic attack. After all, he couldn’t bare to look at the Inquisitor, couldn’t bare to watch as Bull set out discretely washing the blood from her hands with water from the waterskin while he distracted her with idle chatter. It was his fault, after all.

  
The one moment in all his life when failure was not an option, and Dorian had done just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course I only realized I neglected Varric's POV in this chapter when I was done with it. And, of course, when I did try to add it in I just couldn't find a place to fit it in. So I'll do my best to rectify that in chapters to come.
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated, I'd love to hear if you're enjoying this so far!


	4. Chapter 4

It was early evening when the messenger bird arrived, Cullen having just finished his evening meal and was in the process of lighting the candles. He had a pile of paperwork to sift through and a new guard rotation to approve before climbing the ladder up to his bed could even become an option, but at least he’d had the time for a decent supper. Bella would have been glad to hear it, the elven woman often taking it upon herself to make sure he ate when work would push all thoughts of food from his mind. With a sigh the Commander sat down at his desk in plain clothes, armor already clean and resting on it’s stand for the night, when he heard the distinct sound of a raven landing at his window.

Varrics’ handwriting lacked its usual flair; the letters roughly scrawled across the page, the sentences short and clipped in tone, several splatters of ink where his hand had been too hasty. But even by dim candlelight Cullen could decipher it well enough, and what he read made his heart sink. For what seemed to be the longest time he simply sat there, head in one hand and the letter in the other, rereading it as the candle burned down. In this way he forced the facts of the situation, the grim reality of it, into his mind; there was no time for Cullen to flounder in shock or anger over his dead soldiers, or to waste time demanding answers or recompense. The Inquisitor would be returning to Skyhold within the next few days…

“Draw your last breath, my friends; cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at--” But what use would the Maker be to a Dalish clan? The verse of the Chant that had sprung to his lips failed him then. Comfort and acceptance from a god one did not believe in was barely comfort at all, “...Rest at Mythal’s right hand and be forgiven.”

Eventually, long after the sun had sunk behind the mountains and the bird had flown off, Cullen rose from his desk. Taking the letter in hand he exited the office all together and took the staircase down to the courtyard. It was still too cold to be walking around outdoors without a cloak, but the main doors of Skyhold were a short walk from the battlements. When he entered the throne room only a few kitchen staff lingered among the deserted banquet tables and chairs, the fires left to slowly burn themselves out for the night. Those that were present glanced to the doors before quickly moving to make themselves look busy. But Cullen’s focus wasn’t on dawdling kitchen staff, and he passed them by in favor of the door to Josephine’s office.

Luckily the spymaster and ambassador were together, both dressed down for the night as he was. If the situations were less dire he would have paused to reflect on the difference -- Leliana in a delicately embroidered yet utilitarian tunic and pants looked lighter, younger in some way. Certainly much less likely to put a dagger in your back. Cullen imagined this might be as close to the person the Hero of Ferelden once knew as Leliana was ever going to get. And he hadn’t seen Josephine with her hair out of it’s carefully styled updo since their days of sharing a room in Haven.

Both women turned to look as the office door opened, Leliana quirking a brow and standing from her position perched on the edge of Josephine’s desk. Clearly she had caught the look on his face and surmised this was no social visit.

“Commander?” Josephine asked, looking to Leliana as the red haired woman took the letter from his hand, quickly singling it out as his reason for being here. Her change in expression had Josephine turning towards urgency, “What is it Leli?”

“When did this arrive?” Leliana handed the letter to Josephine in lieu of a verbal explanation, her usually painted lips pressed into a thin line.

“Not yet an hour ago, by raven. It couldn’t have been written earlier than this morning.” Cullen turned as he heard a gasp from Josephine, watching as she brought a hand to her mouth before her eyes traced over the same line again.

But moments later his already substantial respect for the ambassador grew as he watched her place the letter neatly down on the surface of her desk and school her expression, eyes turning upward to them both, “Are we to wait for the Inquisitor’s return?”

“No, she’ll be in no condition to make any decisions on this. Or any other matter.” He caught a nod from Josephine out of the corner of his eye as Leliana spoke, “Besides, I assume the task at hand is obvious enough. I’ll have my best agents deployed at first light, we’ve got to find any evidence as quickly as possible.”

“There’s one forward camp set up near the Graves; whichever of my men are there can stand guard in the meantime. The last thing we need are graverobbers or animals disturbing anything before your agents can make an investigation...” The idea of leaving the bodies of the Inquisitors family to lie made his stomach turn. But if they were to find the culprits they could not yet risk a burial; Maker only knew what clues could be buried with the bodies. What was needed now was pure pragmatism, regardless of how much it would hurt Bellanaris to hear them speaking of her loved ones this way.

For the moment they would have to be, in some ways, just as callous as whoever was responsible.

“In the meantime this will need to be kept quiet. We don’t need our enemies seeing our leader weakened, regardless the circumstances. And the Inquisitor doesn’t need our allies pouring down false sympathy in the hopes of gaining favors.” Josephine took up her quill and began to take notes in her ledger as she spoke, making a sort of impromptu to-do list. The next several days would surely be chaotic, the last thing any one of them needed was Josephine adding to that chaos.

The discussion after that was brief, mostly sitting in a kind of stunned silence or talking briefly of how to contain the news even within Skyhold. The inner circle should be told, but past that? They could not allow word to spread, not just yet. A soldier or kitchen staff member guilelessly wandering up to the Inquisitor to offer condolences might do more harm than good. The Inquisition would be told, of course, but all three of her advisors agreed that would be on Bellanaris’ terms as much as possible.

“And, Commander,” Leliana said, having taken up a seat in one of Josephine’s chairs near the fire, “If there is anything Josephine or I might do, any help we could offer you and the Inquisitor…”

It was painfully obvious that Cullen would be on the front lines of this, and even more painfully obvious why. Not just because they were romantically involved, his status as her lover made that a given. But his experiences at Kinloch did give him certain insight into such things, even if it brought a hollow feeling to the Commander’s stomach to think of it. But now the roles would be reversed; he the caretaker, the port in a storm and Bella the one desperately clinging, trying to keep her head above water. Maker, if he could only spare her…

“Thank you, both of you,” he said with a nod to both advisors, attempting to inject as much honest gratitude into his tone as he could, “For now...just make certain the courtyard is empty when they arrive.”

 

Three days later the sun had dipped low beneath the mountains and the torches burned bright by the time the group returned. Only the muffled stomp of hooves on hard packed earth and creak of saddle leather announced their arrival. Usually the courtyard would be a buzz with stable hands taking the mounts, medics checking injuries, and at least one person suggesting a celebratory trip to the tavern. But as Cullen stood at the foot of the staircase, once again out of armor for the second time that week, a chill went up his spine at the silence of it all. They could have slipped in entirely unnoticed by the rest of the fortress, more funeral procession then party returning from the field.

Cullen spotted her instantly, a flash of white hair on a pale hart towards the middle of the group. Bella’s hands were loose on the reigns, chin jerking up from its slow descent towards her chest as they passed beneath the inner gate. He watched as her eyes flickered around with an almost heavy sort of panic, then widening slightly at the realization it was empty. The mask of Inquisitor she had been desperate to scrape together fell to dust in an instant, insubstantial as it was.

A light touch to her elbow brought Cullen’s attention to Dorian as he rode slowly beside her. The mage looked as if he’d aged ten years, heavy bags under his eyes and a slightly sallow look to his skin. And the way he brushed the Inquisitor’s arm, almost hesitant...Cullen had been with the Inquisition from the moment Dorian first arrived back in Haven. He had heard the horrors of that alternate timeline second hand, heard of the events Dorian and the Inquisitor had gone through that allowed them to see each other as more than Tevinter mage and Dalish elf. From there an easy kind of friendship has blossomed between them, and over the almost half year since it had only grown stronger. And not once during that time had Dorian ever been hesitant to touch Bellanaris. Playful shoves after a joke told at his expense, supportive hands laid on backs or shoulders; once Bellanaris had given Dorian the permission he needed his affectionately caring nature had always shown bright.

So to see Dorian’s hand hover in the air between them, to give the lightest of touches to the Inquisitors elbow before swiftly retreating....

Bellanaris pulling her hart up to a stop drews his attention away from Dorian. She dismounted slowly, placing her feet carefully and dropping to the ground with none of the usual lightness. And then she simply leaned against the side of the beast for balance, only giving him a cursory glance when he approached. Cullen knew the feeling, knew it as well as he knew the weight of his shield or the buckles of his armor. The dazed feeling that came with one's world being savagely ripped out from under them, of being left to float aimless, directionless in the abyss left behind. The Chantry sisters at Greenfell had been the ones to give him a heading after Kinloch. Now it was simply Cullen’s turn to pay back that favor, as complex a task as it would be.

Following her lead Cullen stayed silent, ignoring Bull, Dorian, and Varric as they hovered around the edges, unsure if they should simply go about tending to their mounts or attempt to help. He didn’t bother to point them in the right direction, instead gently offering a hand towards Bella, bringing it into her vision carefully before just resting it on her forearm. Within moments he’d coaxed her away from the hart’s side and towards him; then it was only a matter of a widening of his open arms to have her collapsing against him.

He caught and held her weight easily, wrapping his arms securely around her torso. Holding still for a moment Cullen wasn’t sure what to expect, but there was no wretched sobs or wailing, no pounding on his chest in anger or pitiful attempts at an explanation. And he offered nothing in return; no hollow reassurances or hurried apologizes, no attempts to soothe for either of their benefit. They both just stood there in the silence of the courtyard, offering nothing and absorbing all, letting the sounds of crickets and the wind fill it on their behalf. But he could feel her shaking, the tense vibration of her body within his grasp, and for a brief moment Cullen found himself grateful. If Bellanaris had been entirely devoid of emotion he would have been deeply concerned; understanding, of course, but concerned nonetheless. At least the trembling meant she felt something, regardless of how purely agonizing those feelings must be.

Sliding a hand up her shoulders and neck he brought it to rest on the back of her head, pressing her further into him while his thumb absently stroked over the smoothness of her hair. Eventually they would go in, cross the main hall and climb the steps up to the Inquisitor's quarters. Eventually Cullen would draw her a bath, help her out of her armor and into the hot lavender scented water. He would sit by the tub, running a hand lazily through the water as he watched Bella go through the motions of cleaning the dirt and dust of the road from her skin. She would sit shivering in the still warm bath as he quietly cleaned the dried blood out from under her fingernails. Then he would help her out of the tub and into her soft linen night clothing, turn down the blankets and leaving her to sit on the edge of the bed while he went about the room blowing out the candles. Cullen would pause at the last one, feeling Bella’s eyes gently but insistently drilling into his back, and decide to leave it lit. He would offer her a cup of the herbal tea Solas had given him earlier, a special blend to keep her journeys through the Fade calm and easily forgotten. She would drink it silently and together they would lie down to sleep; Cullen’s nose buried in her lavender scented hair, their limbs tangled up together.

Eventually all of it would happen, but for now the pair stood together in the courtyard, Bellanaris trembling as Cullen held her and the night grew darker. Around them the crickets chirped, the banners flapped gently in the breeze, Skyhold loomed silent and dimly lit behind them, and the world turned on.

 

Her hearing and sense of smell returned to her together, the creaking of cart wheels in her ears and the stench of wet hay filling her nose. For a moment her brain was thick with fog before the nausea pierced through it, panic right on it’s heels. She had to get up, find her feet and run. But her limbs were so sluggish, unaffected by the sudden surge of adrenaline, and the taste of bile thick on her tongue. She had to--

“Stop it! Stop it, you’ll kill her!” Ishall? Why was wrong? Why did he sound so desperate, so afraid?

Finally Mirai managed to open her eyes, her lids impossibly heavy, just in time to see a hand lash out to strike Ishall across the face. A human. He barked something at him, something Mirai didn’t bother to catch, too concerned with watching Ishall crumple to the wooden floor of the cart. Even in the darkness she could see blood starting to flow from the split in his bottom lip. And more blood, the color of her own vallaslin catching her eyes at Ishall’s wrists. The shackles were starting to rub them raw.

“Isha--” her voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. But she didn’t even manage his full name before a cloth was pressed hard to her nose and mouth by those same huge hands that had been raised to Ishall only moments before. A flash of faded white on his other hand caught her panicked gaze, the finger she’d broken were roughly bandaged. The sickening smell of rotting fruit dragged her down once again, consciousness fleeing quickly as the cart rolled on.


End file.
